No, Jamys thought, lashing out in pain and rage at the other alien mind. I would die so that she might live.

Save her, and you are lost. Kill her, and then perhaps you both shall live. The other immortal’s power abruptly vanished.

Jamys!

He caught her in his arms, and they fell together through the voice and the wind and the darkness. Jamys landed on his back with Christian thrashing blindly on top of him.

“I have you.” He closed his arms around her, holding her still until she opened her eyes and stared down at his face. “I have you.”

She looked up and all around at the boat’s cabin before she collapsed against him. “Oh, God.”

Jamys cradled her as he sat up, turning her so that he could hold her as he braced his back against the frame of the bunk. He felt as weak as if he had not fed for a month, and it took all his self-discipline to stifle the tremors vibrating from his very bones.

“I thought I was having a nightmare.” Chris shifted, tucking herself into the curve of his arm. “What was that?”

“Not a dream.” The rapid beat of her heart distracted him; he could hear it humming through her limbs. Wherever they touched, it pulsed beneath the thin silk of her skin. “It felt like the nightlands.”

“That’s where you go when you sleep?” She shuddered. “I’d rather stay awake for eternity.”

Exhaustion and hunger made his fangs emerge into his mouth. “Sometimes it can be frightening.” He needed to put her aside, moor the boat, and leave her to hunt. And as soon as his head cleared, he would.

She lifted her face from his shoulder. “But I thought the Kyn were the only ones who could cross over into the nightlands. Why was I there? Jamys, your eyes.”

“Forgive me.” He eased her off his lap and tried to stand, and was vaguely alarmed to discover he could not. “Go to the helm, Christian, and take care of the boat. I will rest now.”

She ignored him and pressed her fingers to his neck. “Damn it, you barely have a pulse.”

Jamys felt her move away, and his body responded with a sluggish flow of need. That he couldn’t act on it was his only relief. He would rest through the daylight hours, and when he woke, he would hunt.

The unyielding wood made a poor pillow, he decided, until he felt warm hands lifting his head onto something much softer.

“You’re a lot heavier than you look.” Cloth slid from beneath his cheek. “Well, Burke said not to let it show.”

Her words made no sense to him, but he smelled her blood spill into the air a moment before a drop of it touched the corner of his mouth. Jamys tried to turn his head away, but her hand prevented it.

“Right now you need it more than I do,” she chided softly. “Go on. Drink.”

Her command was his wish, and the undoing of all his resolve; his lips sought the source of the blood and covered it. The taste of her made his fangs stretch out, eager to penetrate and take more, but to spare her more pain he used the last dregs of his strength to only suckle at the small wound.

Even that thin flow poured life and strength into him with astounding speed. Soon he brought up his hands, expecting to feel her forearm beneath his lips and instead grasping the tight muscles of her thigh. He raised his head to look at what she had done to herself, and saw a small wound marring her flesh, high up on the inside of her thigh. She had cut herself for him.

Her hand stroked over the back of his head, gently pressing as if to urge him back to the source of his delight. He ran the flat of his tongue over the wound, gathering the bright red beads that had welled there, and heard the soft sound she made. He could smell the arousal darkening her body’s scent, and followed it until his mouth found the edge of her panties. The sharp points of his fangs easily sliced through the flimsy fabric, and he peeled it back from the pretty flower of her sex.

“Oh. Boy.” Her fingers curled into his hair. “Burke didn’t mention this.”

He looked up at her flushed, startled face before he deliberately pressed his mouth to the center of her dark curls. “And this?”

“Not a word.” She watched him through drowsy eyes, and when he used his tongue to part her, she shivered. “Jamys.”

He drew back a little to take in the fragrance of her desire, and look upon her hidden beauties. If she were his, he would take her away to some sultry deserted island where they would never have to wear clothing, and he could look upon her and touch her and take her whenever he wished.

Jamys put his hand over her to feel her heat against his palm, and her hips moved so that her damp mons rubbed against his skin. He eased two fingertips between her folds and found the slick entrance to her body, which instantly clenched around him in reaction. He could feel her tension in her thighs and the tightening of her belly, but when he glanced at her face, he saw only longing and excitement.

“Do you like that?” he murmured.

“No.” A dimple appeared in her cheek. “I love that.”

Slowly he pushed his fingers deeper, penetrating her sheath and filling her soft, wet channel. When she tightened again, he put his mouth against her, stroking her open with his tongue and rubbing the small, hooded nub of her clit. Like a pearl it swelled and emerged, satiny-soft, pulsing along with her heart.

As he lavished long, slow strokes of his tongue on her, he used his fingers to play within her, turning them in a rhythmic glide against the fluttering, grasping grip of her body.

This was how she would feel on his cock: hot and wet, tight and trembling.

The thought of fucking her that way made his muscles knot and his hips jerk as his fangs shot out into his mouth, and then she convulsed, scoring herself on the sharp tips as her body spasmed.

The taste of her sex and her blood released all the dark wanting inside him, and Jamys thrust his fingers in and out of her, harder and deeper with each roll of his wrist, driving her from one peak to another as he rode her with his mouth and tongue.

Her hands fisted in his hair, and she curled over, bringing his mouth to her lips. The carnal explosion of that kiss brought him to the edge, but it was the feel of her hand reaching into his trousers that sent him over. The moment she touched him he groaned and shoved the head of his straining penis against her palm, and released the first aching stream of his seed.

“I have you,” he heard her sigh.

Chapter 12

Sam looked through the two-way mirror at the suspect sitting in the interrogation room. A tanned, somewhat overweight man in his early forties, he wore an off-the-rack business suit, a wide and rather ugly yellow tie, and a fake Rolex. “That’s our killer.”

“Alleged killer.” Garcia glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. “He’s Eugene Gates, forty-three, divorced, no children. A pharmaceutical rep. Couple of speeding tickets.” He handed her the arrest report. “He gave the desk sergeant a bloodstained diamond necklace, but hasn’t offered a motive.”

Sam looked past him at Jonah Massey, who stood just outside talking with one of the janitors. “What’s he doing here?”

“I want Massey in there with you.” Before she could reply, Garcia shook his head. “The DA wants a full confession on videotape. That means two officers present, my lady.”

It also meant she couldn’t use l’attrait to compel the suspect to tell her the truth. “Massey,” she called, and was momentarily distracted by the hamster-wheel squeak of the janitor’s wheeled bucket as he pushed it out of sight down the hall. “Can you run a video camera?”

Massey ducked inside. “In my sleep.”

“Then you’re in charge of taping and typing.” She handed the clipboard off to him.

Inside the interrogation room Sam pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, noting the complete lack of reaction from Gates. The suspect, who seemed content to continue staring at a long scratch in the table’s Formica top, didn’t even twitch when she went through the introductions.

“Mr. Gates, I’m Detective Samantha Brown.” Sam turned the chair around, straddled it, and nodded at Jonah. “This is Detective Jonah Massey. Have you been informed of your rights?”

Gates nodded slowly.

Sam breathed in but didn’t smell any taint in the air that might indicate the man was stoned or drunk. “Sir, I’ll need you to answer me with verbal replies.”

“Yes, I’ve been informed of my rights,” he told the scratch. “I murdered Noel Coburn.”

Gates spoke in a monotone. That, combined with his vacant expression and lack of body language, suggested he was mentally handicapped, was in a state of shock, or had been sampling his wares a little too liberally.

“We’re going to videotape this interview, Mr. Gates. What you say in this room will definitely be used against you in court. Do you understand, and consent to that?”

“Yes.”

Sam nodded to Massey, who switched on the camera and recited the time, the date, and their names for the record. What she needed to do first was see if she could shake Gates out of his parrot act. “What’s your middle name, Eugene?”

He looked up at her as if expecting her to provide a hint. When she didn’t, he frowned and thought about it. After thirty seconds, he said, “Victor.”

“Do you know what day it is?” After he answered that just as slowly, she sat back and studied his face. He had the remains of a summer tan, but it had taken on a yellow cast, and the skin around his mouth and under his chin looked loose. He smelled of soap, and his clothes were clean, but his fingernails looked as if he’d been digging in the dirt for days. “What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

He licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Nothing.”

“How about dinner last night? Lunch yesterday?” Before he could answer, she asked, “When was the last time you ate anything, Eugene?”

It took him a full minute before he replied, “Three days ago.”

Massey whistled. “That long, huh?” A candy bar landed on the table in front of Gates, and when Sam glared at Massey, he shrugged. “The guy’s probably hungry, right?”